Jesus Tattooed Me

We tell the stories of how we ”got through it.” But what about the cry of our hearts in the midst of it. The heart musings cultivated in moments of quiet thought and reflection. Moments of anguish and pain. Moments of merciless nothingness. The moments we wrap ourselves in lies so deep and soft that we shun truth as if it were sand paper of the roughest grain. We are beings of will and marrow, with spirits of independence and stubbornness unrivaled in all of creation.

Of our own making, we have chosen to design a society based upon judgement and fear. All born out of a will desiring to be what it inherently cannot be - God. Choosing to be broken. Choosing to be lied to. All we’ve ever sought is control, with deception lying at the core of our lust for it. We choose to be lied to, for lies are safe and familiar. They insulate us from the jarring impact of truth and what our cultural sensibilities recoil at hearing.

As I write these words, though, I scorn them. I recognize my own anger at being called broken and sinful. What archaic nonsense. What absolute, utter nonsense. I didn’t choose to be part of any of this. I want to be left alone. I chose to be me, living my life free from God, the devil, or any other fear mongering, grace propagating, religious manipulation. I want no part of it.

But even as I sit here quietly, willingly ready to slash my own thoughts, I can still separate my hurt from what I inherently and honestly know to be true.

Feelings aside, as valuable as they are, I know God has not abandoned me. I know I am loved by Him. I know He has not forgotten me. And I know that He exists.

Yet, what we know to be true in our mind’s eye is often worlds apart from what our heart experientially, intrinsically, and unshakably confirms.

As much as I want to say “God” is all an elaborate hoax for manipulation and control, I can’t deny what I’ve experienced. And although I wrestle with and maintain deep skepticisms of the modern religious institutions and programs of the west, I cannot deny God.

I had a dream the other night. As vivid as I can recall. Jesus was tattooing my thighs. He was white, which I remember even in the dream thinking, “Jesus, should you not be more Arab-looking?” We laughed and joked. He was so incredibly likable. He put me completely at ease with His light-hearted banter as He showed me His designs for the tattoos. On my right thigh was a design for beautiful geometric diamonds, colored almost a translucent purple. It was breath-taking. And on my left thigh was a Don’t Tread on Me snake, cut into sections, and a small eel having its place atop the outside of my hip. It hurt, and I squirmed as He worked, but I was never scared. I knew I could trust Him. And what’s even more humorous now is that when I looked at the finished design on my left thigh, I remember thinking, “oh, this is pretty good, but it’s not that good, given that Jesus did it.” But before I could give Him my “constructive criticism,” I awoke. And given the jovialness that I remember in the dream, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if He just laughed and smiled at my critiquing His tattooing skills.

I still can’t shake the vividness of how pleasant His presence was.

And what’s more, I wasn’t chided for not believing; not being a good Christian girl. I was just loved and delighted in.

In the months since I’ve stopped going to church, praying, or actively seeking God’s presence, this was an unexpected and frankly un-ushered experience. But I would be disingenuous to say that it was all “just a dream.” Yes it was a dream, but I cannot deny its vividness. My imagination is not that active.

I’m not a changed woman, and am still very much “going through it.” I remember telling a friend that I hoped to get to a point where Jesus no longer offended me. And what I can say now is that there was not an offensive bone in the body of the man who so lovingly cared for me in that dream. If that is who Jesus is, I would love to love Him.

In Humanness

Two very dear friends came to visit me recently. It’s been more than three years since I’ve seen them, and pulling them close in a deep embrace, I was jolted by the feeling that I had been living with a profound relational void without their presence. 

On the surface, this lack of connectivity was inexcusable, given relative ease of transportation, and constant connectedness via social media. We live a meager three hours from one another. But as an introvert myself, I know that my willingness to open up to friends, even dear ones, in moments of vulnerability and deep personal uncertainty feels beyond communicable. ‘I’m just going to get through this, and when I’m “all right”  again, I’ll talk to people. ‘I just can’t right now.’ This thought pattern has been the soundtrack of my frailties, and replayed so many times in my own mind that I imagine it as a scratched record stuck on, “I just can’t, I just can’t I just can’t.”

But in moments when you can’t hide, and even if you could, it would feel disingenuous to those who knew you so well and truly do not care to hear your protective fluff that it’s time to pull up the needle of the record player and move past the repeating loop of personal misgivings.

I was apprehensive about our reuniting. How awkward would it be? Would it be as though we had never been apart? Would conversation be full of niceties and safe pleasantries? Three years can be no time, or a whole lot of time. How much had each of us grown? How much would time have affected us? 

And although I’m generally very hard on myself, I’ve come to value a strange relational co-mingling of my own creation; a bold, risky combination of vulnerability and confidence. It’s this willingness to be open and exposed that I’ve found to be quite rare. And perhaps for good reason. It would be foolish to spill your guts to every tom, dick, or harry just in the hopes of gaining their confidence to share in kind. You share with those whom you trust and know will be non-judgemental of your frailties. But so often it seems as though people desire others to open up to them without offering any sort of genuine personal honesty in return. But to be fair, this openness can be done with a manipulative motive, albeit non-malicious. 

Being aware of the pitfalls of both, I remain convinced however that true connectedness comes within the dynamic of reciprocal sharing.

And so, with my girlfriends sitting on my most recent imperfect adult purchase, a stylish yet stiff love-seat in my small Queens apartment, I decided to give them the complete red dot, “you are here” of the last three years. I wasn’t going to see this time frittered away in idle “how are you’s?” “Oh, good.” Because, if you’re a human living in the 21st century, the totality of your holistic life surely is not simply, “oh, good.” If it is, I will politely excuse myself from your dull, dishonest company, understanding that it is your complete right not to share. Equally however, I'm not inclined to pander to that kind of protectionist chatter, especially with dear friends, and even less so from myself.

I wanted to update them both in a spirit of honesty and vulnerability, and also set the tone of ease and safety if they wanted to share. But here I was, shooting from the hip as it were, telling these amazing, believing Christian women all about my core misgivings about faith, God, and the modern church. 

Heaven help this awkward, rambling woman named Grace.

I’ve been careful about who I’ve shared these recent revelations with, knowing that many are threatened by these kinds of skepticisms, and knowing myself all too capable of oversharing. 

I’ve found there to be a few typical kinds of responses. One: “Oh, I’ve been there too. You’ll get through it. It’s just a season.” Two: “You just have to do what’s right for you; follow your heart.” “It’s all relative truth anyway.” Or three: “Wow, this resonates. This is how I’ve felt for a really long time but never felt ok to admit it.” 

My one friend is incredibly thoughtful, discerning, and intelligent; not prone to emotional outbursts or negligent words. And when I finally shut up my ranting monologue, she began to give us, or rather me, some insight into her last three years. 

She and her husband have been struggling with infertility. My heart sank into my stomach.

Her honesty in admitting the challenge to reconcile her “unexplained infertility” with a kind and loving God struck a deep cord with me. We spoke about pain and disappointment; the inescapable frustration of it all. I believe we all sat as equals in that moment; all frail, all experienced in our respective stages of life, all honest about the sometimes brutal realities of living.

It was beautiful. It was inglorious. It was hopeful. It was love and honesty among friends.

There was no “God’s going to make everything alright.” “He knows what you’re going through and will make it all worth it in the end.” “He’s just testing you.” And the classic, “You just need to have more faith.”

Instead, it was, “I’m so sorry, this is shit.” “It’s cruel and its unkind.” “I love you.” “Let us know if there’s anything we can do.” They were the words and sentiments that we felt intrinsically; sincerely. For I’m convinced that there is no surer way to show someone that you’re not truly listening than to speak a platitude to them, no matter how well meaning.

A christianese banality only serves to give the illusion of comfort and assurance. It’s more for the speaker and much less for the hearer.

I believe that there is genuine hope expressed in the admittance of shit, because it resonates in the trueness of experience. And from that place of trueness can come humor, creativity, movement, calmness, hope; whatever outlet your spirit needs to cope with the pain of grief and disappointment.

I’m so proud of both these friends. Amazing women; full of hope, courage, and steadfastness. It takes some serious spunk to be open and vulnerable about your story in the midst of it. So many suffer in silence along the way, because honestly, the christianese platitudes hurt too much.

So let’s be genuine with one another, recognizing that there is hope, even in the admittance of shit.

Take Every Rite of Passage

I wouldn’t call it a 30 year crisis, but the thoughts surrounding entry into my third decade of life did spur a fascination with solo travel. My thoughts were for the most part, pragmatic. I had a generous allowance of time off work, and my passport was soon to expire. I therefore needed a location which was favorable to the dollar, lax on visa requirements, and exceptionally cheap. Mexico would never have crossed my mind, save the rave reviews of a dear friend. As her stories and pictures began to capture my imagination, I realized that I had been an unconscious south of the border snob. Mexico? That’s where people leave. 

I jimmied up the courage to say, “why the hell not,” and booked a flight to Mexico City. I doubt I realized the gravity of it all in the moment, for I was choosing to experience a foreign country where I was completely devoid of connections, and with little to no command of the native language. 

And to top it off, doing it all as a single woman.

Considering that my largest shock and hurdle was the lack of English being spoken, the trip was in general, a pleasant one. I stayed with a stylish, kind couple in an area largely less bougie than the highly blogged Condessa and Roma areas, but which lended itself to a more genuine exposure of the life of a middle to upper class Mexican.

Ubers were shockingly affordable; like an average of $4 per ride affordable. Tacos, $1; Champagne, $6; coffee, mere cents. Yes, these were delightful respites to my pocketbook, but at what cost to the people who call this city home; who live and work and survive on an average of $4 per day. That's right, a $4 per day minimum wage. 

This catapulted my mind into thinking about immigration; about the fact that people do not leave their homes for no reason. It has to be with great hesitation, fear, and hope that they risk everything at only the mere possibility of a better life.

Is there anything that can be done so that people can stay in the homes they love, and have the opportunity to wield their own creativity and ingenuity within the borders of their own homeland? It broke my heart to think that so many people would have to, through no fault of their own, leave such a beautiful, enchanting country to make just a few dollars more. And that just a few dollars more could make such a difference. I couldn’t shake the naggingness of the injustice.

I became increasingly aware of how much white priviledge I had/have, and was currently exercising in a foreign place. It remained in the back of my mind throughout the trip, and became the filter through which I experienced everything else. I saw the smiles, but I also saw the glares. I saw the impeccable manicured lawns of the 1%, and I also saw the ruddy faced peddlers on the potholed streets. 

Within the archetype of my own privilege, I was experiencing two paradigms of life; a vantage point and freshness of eyes that could see two polarized worlds within one, grand tapestry. A city and country birthed out of violence, war, and oppression. I was quieted as I walked through the grand halls of Chapultapec Castle, now Mexico’s National History Museum. I can scare say that I remember seeing so much pain depicted in the course of hundreds of lifetimes. Pain, juxtaposed with color, vibrancy, and life. Mexico City is truly a city of palatial opposites. 

But at no point could I afford to appear timid, apologetic, or shy. I cannot express strongly enough how much this necessity is magnified as a solo woman traveler. Quite truthfully, to my surprise, I met expats nearly every day; some making me miss companionship, and others reminding me how glad I was to be alone. 

But as a woman on her own, it is doubly true, and doubly necessary to be on guard, and maintain a composure of certainty and sureness, because there is no companion to pick up any slack in your ambivalence. It is both empowering and exhausting. You gain a taste for the level of unfamiliarity that you can withstand, navigate, and ultimately enjoy, against what feels like very unlikely odds at the start. So often I found myself saying, “well, I just have to figure it out; suck it up.”

It never ceases to amaze me at how tremendously versatile humans are when they are open to the shit, the challenge and the learning.

I am a woman who is fragile, and strong. A woman who is timid, and adventurous. A woman who can brave the unfamiliar and thrive. A woman who has been reminded that she can be scared, but always has the choice of whether she is intimidated.

But interestingly, the very reason I even need to write these reassurances, reveals that traveling alone as a woman is not easy.

It’s actually fucking hard. But it is worthwhile, authentic, and telling; experience that will disclose a great deal of internal truth. 

It was a hell of a way to enter my thirties. But a rite of passage that I will undoubtedly cherish for many years to come.

Beryl-like Stranger

Unexpected was at best, the scenario in play on a very ordinary Tuesday afternoon. He was minding his own business, I’m sure, as I was mine, but hopeless romance always suggests otherwise. We were the sole owners of that particular stretch of sidewalk between 62nd St. and the Woodside Laundromat. Placidly scanning the horizon of the very ordinary elements of that Queens street, I saw him, walking towards me. Well, walking to the laundromat, presumably, but as far as I was concerned, I imagined him running to swoop me up into arms. [Que wind-blown hair] He was dressed in a casual light blue crew neck tee, slinging a blue laundry bag over his shoulder.

I didn’t see him at first, but when I did, I saw his legs—legs that looked like rounded columns of beryl. Archaic description, yes, but this gem is actually a real stone and is still mined today. It’s known for its hardness and tremendous beauty when transparent. In fact, it was one of the stones worn on the breastplate of the high priest in biblical times. Indeed, a highly valued gem, and so of course, I very quickly assessed the value of this beryl-like stranger. The sole image that kept playing in my mind was that of King David. If the rugged, handsome King were to don street clothes in the 21st century, I was surely staring him in the face. The King David incarnate in my mind had in reality short salt and pepper hair, broad shoulders with a body fit and taut well suited beneath their breadth, sun kissed skin, and the kind of irresistible swagger inherent in a man who doesn’t even realize he has it. The pleasantness of his features were I assure you, unmistakeable. Thankfully the exchange was a manageable 20 seconds, for I doubt I would’ve kept it together much beyond 30. A stumbling and bumbling assessment of him, coupled with my grasping attempts to maintain composure, culminated in a steady moment of intentional eye contact, which to my surprise seemed mutual. I most definitely forgot to take a few breaths. Not to my memory have I ever locked eyes with a man so handsome.

Mercifully, I was still looking moderately cute after a full, dull day at the office. My outfit, relaxed and professional; hair, attractively messy; shoes, white tennies. I looked appropriately adult. We passed. I hustled up to my third floor walk-up, and after a short conversation of approval with myself in the mirror, I paced the apartment for a few minutes in lieu of a cold shower.

But I do wish with all the fortitude my little heart could muster that I had turned and looked again. Perhaps to see him turning around too? My hopeless romantic heart could burst at the thought.

And it was on my very routine commute home in a neighborhood which is arguably less than  attractive, in more ways than one. To see such an a-typical one was, delightful. But it happens in New York. We pass thousands of people each day on our commutes. A sea of attractive and unattractive alike; sometimes we notice, sometimes we don’t. But more often than not, it takes a particular likeness to turn our heads. And it is for this very reason—the rareness of such a simple exchange that I do wish I had turned my head; that I had said something. For what am I left with now for not having tried? A funny little story, to be sure, but the greater loss is having seen someone so strikingly lovely, yet constrained by pride and insecurity that I literally let them pass by.

I wish my handsome stranger well, and can only hope that one day I will stop someone’s breath the way he did mine. I looked for his blue bag in the window of the laundromat as I passed by it on the next morning’s commute. It was there, and I felt a smirk rise onto my coy little chin.

The Hope for a Dream

To write, to see, to know. Stream of consciousness. What is there to see—what is there to know? Simple observations of the day, filtered through mood, emotion, and perception. We observe, we filter, we process, we perceive - all of which we turn into experience, and all within split seconds. Creation’s capacity to process and react is quite miraculous. To sit in silence and perceive thoughts. I sit here now, listening to a cacophony of white noise: the refrigerator’s hum in the next room, the birds chirping outside my north facing window, planes flying in orderly sequence along their air runway above my small Queens apartment, and the frequent sirens and horns inherent to an urban diaspora. This is my life. This is a slice of New York City. Quiet and stillness are in themselves uncomfortable, but even more so are they here; jarring almost. Because everyday is filled with people, sounds, and every kind of pressure. Thousands of people pass on a commute; bumping shoulders, avoiding eye contact, ascending and descending the stairs of a transit system built more than 100 years ago.

And that’s an interesting thought in itself. How many people have gone before us; living, working, dying--Even with every day-to-day pressure and responsibility, we still share humanity’s inevitable call to live, work, and die. It’s a strange irony that we seem to fight so earnestly to justify our existence - our importance, while most of our stories will be lost to the anvils of time. This is not to say however that lives are meaningless - far from it! Could we imagine not enjoying the luxuries of infrastructure, technology or cuisine; developed, created, and built on the shoulders of human accomplishment? By no means. But the thought is simply to remind us of the limits of self-importance. We are good and kind, simply because it is the right thing to do in light of humanity’s sojourn of living, working, and dying. Not one escapes this fate. And truly, not a fate that should be feared or resisted. For it is in these inglorious moments of living, working, and dying that life happens; the good, the bad, and the f**ked up. 

So much of daily messaging centers around making a mark on this world. Self-improving this, branding yourself that, creating this or that message, presenting yourself in such and such a light. The pressures are shocking. The desire is good, but the sucking, consuming nature of it all can shirk life - shirk precious moments. We either work too hard, or not enough.We feel the weight of any number of indelible pressures, both from within and without. Living in the past, or living in the future, but rarely in the present.

To be sure, we seek balance in our aspirations, our time, and our relationships. Some of us are a-type rapid fire achievers, others, relaxed, sociable b-types, but most of us are somewhere in-between. We hope, we dream, we beg, but everyone has a story. And stories are worth telling,  because they remind us that our experience is not uncommon. They remind us to be kind to ourselves on this imperfect sojourn called life. It is the, “you too?!” of experience that transforms strangers into friends.  

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We seek not to make a point or to forward an agenda with this blog, but simply to create space to tell real, honest, vulnerable stories of experience. To share thoughts of life revealing the glorious in the inglorious.  

And it is our hope that many “you too?!” moments will be shared, and that all of us will be encouraged by the commonality of experience.